Charcoal
by FiwiKruit
Summary: A Titanic AU. Sam's a rich kid who's bored with life. Aboard the famed ship, he meets poor artist Dean. And the rest, as they say, is history. Explicit Wincest.


**As per usual, none of it is mine. There might be more to this, I haven't decided yet.**

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><p>The boat's big. Bigger than he was expecting, certainly, and much bigger than he would like. Big means more people watching him, more people to impress.<p>

Jessica simpers on his arm, staring in awe up at the huge ship, a smile tugging at her lipsticked lips.

"Isn't it wonderful, sweetheart?" she coos, and Sam wrinkles his nose slightly. No, he wants to tell her. No, it's ugly and metal and the complete opposite of beautiful. But he was raised a gentleman, so instead he smiles charmingly down at her and nods his agreement.

"It's magnificent, dearest," he supplies, when just nodding doesn't seem like enough. His father smiles approvingly next to him, the only emotion Sam's seen on his face all morning. John Winchester isn't big on public displays of emotion. Of any kind.

The moment is interrupted by two men, dressed in scruffy clothes that resemble rags more than anything else - one of whom whoops excitedly beside Sam and sprints to the side of the Titanic.

"Check her out, Cas!" he calls back to the other man, who is smiling slightly and staring up at the ship with the same awe that had been in Jessica's eyes just moments earlier. "This old hunk of iron's gonna get us out of here!"

"To America," Cas adds, joining his friend, who laughs delightedly, brandishing two tickets to the sky.

"All the way to America!" The man grins madly, letting out another loud cheer and grabbing Cas's arm. His eyes are the most exquisite shade of green Sam's ever seen, like someone melted down the emeralds his mother used to wear and shaped them into a human iris.

Cas clutches his arm in return, and the two share a private smile. Sam's taken aback by the pure joy in their faces, an expression it's rare to see in the circles he moves in. Such outlandish emotions are frowned upon by the elite.

The two men captivate him anyway, and he watches them silently, nodding at whatever it is Jessica's babbling on about now. Something about the fashion in New York, and how she'll have to update her entire wardrobe when they arrive.

"Come on, Dean," Cas says after a moment, his grin firmly back in place. "Let's get on board."

Dean. Sam repeats the name to himself for hours that evening; as he's introduced to a hundred and one important people, as he's shown around the upper decks, as he sits in silence at dinner listening to his father explain the newest venture of the Winchester business. It was vaguely amusing to him how one man, so poor his clothes were practically falling off his frame, had managed to capture his attention more fully than any of the beautifully dressed people in the dining hall that evening.

Though, if he's honest, it isn't hard to be more interesting than the peacocks he's eating with. The room is full of jewels and fake smiles, compliments falling through the air like poisoned honey. Sam finds it all claustrophobic, and extremely boring.

Once they've finished the final course and the men start moving on to whiskey and cigars, Sam excuses himself from the table and heads out onto the decks. It's cooler outside, and quieter, though there are still handsome couples strolling across the wooden slats. The deck below, however, is deserted, and Sam can see the stairs leading down to it.

The man who lead them around the ship hadn't bothered showing them the lower floors, telling them that it was the general rabble that had managed to cheat, beg or steal a ticket onto the boat. It was clear from his tone that he didn't approve of their presence, but Sam had been somewhat pleased that at least some of the poorer masses would be able to build a new life for themselves in America.

Sam glances around the deck quickly, and once satisfied that no one's watching, he slips through the gate and down the stairs. Sure enough, the lower deck is empty, and Sam laughs slightly into the silent air. If his father could only see him now!

He hurries to the railing on the edge of the boat, leaning over the metal rail and grinning down into the water. The sea below is dark and wild, whipping up onto the side of the boat with such ferocity it splashes at Sam's face. He laughs again, louder this time, and leans further forward, wanting to feel the freedom of the waves on his cheeks again.

And then a cough sounds from behind him.

Sam whirls around, blushing slightly at being caught, and is met with the amused face of the man from earlier - Dean.

"It's you," he breathes, then remembers himself and straightens up, wiping his hair out of his face. "Hello."

Dean chuckles slightly and cocks his head.

"You're dressed awfully well to be on this deck," he comments lightly, but Sam can see the caution in his eyes under the false welcome.

"The upper decks were too stifling," Sam replies, shifting against the railings. "I can down here to be alone."

"Should I be leaving, then?" Dean asks, raising and eyebrow, and Sam hesitates before replying in the negative. Dean's eyebrow lifts higher, but he holds out a hand. "Dean," he announces quietly.

Sam resists the urge to say I know, and takes the hand firmly, mentally commenting on how strong the man's grip is.

"Samuel John Winchester," he replies, then smiles slightly at Dean's expression. "You can call me Sam."

Dean smiles beautifully, Sam notes, and shakes his hand solidly before letting it go.

"Welcome to the lower decks, Sam."

They talk for a long while, longer than Sam's spent with anyone on the upper decks all day, about everything and nothing. It's new to Sam, the kind of talk where there are no expectations, no pressures.

And then Dean mentions his art.

Sam's an avid art follower, spending most of his free time at the various galleries popping up in London and sorting through paintings and sketches alike. He's already got a fairly impressive collection building up, with the majority of the pieces drawn in black charcoal because there's something about the thick black material that makes a beautiful medium in Sam's eyes.

So he probes.

"You draw?" he asks, when Dean finishes a story in which his art hobby was only a passing part. The man blinks and colours slightly, looking out across the sea.

"Yeah," he confesses, smiling slightly. "It's just a hobby, y'know? But yes, I draw."

"Can I see some?" Sam says before he can think about it, then curses himself when Dean turns to him, a slight frown on his face.

"Why?"

"I'm an art fan," Sam offers. "And I'd like to see yours."

Dean considers him for a moment, then nods slowly.

"Okay," he mutters, pushing himself up off the railing and heading back into the ship. Sam follows him, an eager smile on his face.

Dean's room is about a tenth of the size of Sam's room, but Dean seems unconcerned with the cramped quarters, so Sam ignores it as best as he can. The man roots around in the small bag he'd brought on board with him, and Sam settles himself on the bed to watch.

The pad Dean hands him is scuffed and worn, but from overuse, not neglect. It smells of ink and parchment, the leather of the covers buttery and soft beneath his fingers. Sam shoots Dean another quick glance to check if it's okay, and at Dean's nod, he opens the book.

The art is breathtaking. It ranges from simple pencil sketches of people and things - Dean recognises Cas's face smiling out at him from a couple of the pictures - to watercolours and charcoal landscapes. Each one captures the subject perfectly, even the caricatures scrawled in the corners of some of the pages.

"Oh, Dean," Sam whispers, barely breathing as he looks closer at the image of a young girl laughing in the streets. "Dean, these are incredible."

Dean blushes slightly, shifting from one leg to the other, and smiles bashfully.

"They're mostly just quick things I jot off when I'm bored, nothing special," he demures and Sam scoffs.

"They're better than most of the art I see in London every day," he replies, turning to a more detailed drawing of the same girl. "You have a wonderful talent."

There's a moment of silence as Sam finishes looking through the sketchpad, Dean just watching him closely to see each reaction. Sam doesn't disappoint, not once, smiling widely at every picture and inhaling sharply at the best ones, laughing softly at others. When the pages become more and more blank, he looks up at Dean.

"I don't suppose... Would it be too much to ask for you to draw me?" he forces out in a rush, and Dean flushes again, but nods, taking the pad from Sam's hands. He drags a chair out to the wall opposite the bed and settles down, resting the pad gently in his lap, then pauses.

"Take off your clothes," he murmurs, bending down to pull out some sticks of charcoal.

It's Sam's turn to blush this time, ducking his face beneath his hair, but he strips out of his jacket and shirt anyway, rising to his feet and pausing with his hands on the buttons of his slacks.

Dean looks up and smirks slightly, gesturing for him to come closer.

"If it's too hard for you, I can do it, don't worry," he breathes, pushing Sam's hands away and pushing open each button slowly. Sam's breath hitches as Dean pulls the material down over his hips, letting it drop to the floor in a messy pile. Part of Sam twinges - those trousers probably cost more than Dean's ticket - but the thought is swept away when Dean's fingers wrap around the hem of his underpants, tugging them down slowly.

Dean's tongue darts out and runs over his lips as Sam's cock pulls free of the material, and Sam's eyes fix on the movement, feeling himself harden under Dean's gaze. When the underwear hits the floor by his ankles, he lifts each foot slowly away from the cloth, watching Dean's eyes as they follow the slight sway of his hips. Dean swallows once, roughly, and looks up at Sam with dark eyes, nodding to the bed.

"Lie down over there," he commands in a low voice, and Sam does as ordered, arranging himself on his back with his legs spread messily and his arms behind his head. Dean's breath catches slightly when he looks up, but then there's silence again, neither of them speaking over the sound of charcoal on paper.

Sam lies there for what seems like hours, watching Dean's face as he concentrates on the paper in front of him. He's hard already, and Dean hasn't touched him beyond undressing him - which should be embarrassing, but the look in Dean's eyes whenever he glances up at Sam more than makes up for the indignity.

And then Dean stops, placing the charcoal carefully down on the floor by his side and staring at the picture in his hands.

"It's done?" Sam asks, lifting himself into a more upright position, and Dean looks over at him with so much heat in his gaze that Sam's heart stutters in his chest.

Dean pushes the pad aside and rises to his feet in one smooth, deliberate movement, hesitates for a heartbeat, then strides over to the bed and pushes Sam back down, straddling him like it's the most natural thing in the world. Sam stares up at him in shock - eyes wide open because this is _new_, this isn't what people do - and Dean rocks his hips down into Sam's. The friction, such hot, delicious friction, teases a moan out of Sam's throat, and Dean's face relaxes slightly, as though he was scared that Sam didn't want this before.

And Sam does want it, wants Dean like he's never wanted anyone before.

Sam curls his hands behind Dean's head, pulls him down for a kiss, his lips parting almost straight away because he wants Dean inside him, any way he can get him. Dean's tongue slips inside, drags across his cheeks and his tongue, and Sam's grip tightens.

Another moan escapes his mouth as Dean's hips roll down again, hard enough for Sam to feel the erection behind the rough cloth of his trousers. He pants harshly, tries to tell Dean that he needs to lose the clothes, _now_, but Dean's lips are on his again, licking out the inside of his mouth. Instead, he scrabbles at the buttons with his fingers, until they pop open under his hands and he shoves them down and finally, finally, Dean's skin is on his.

Dean groans into his mouth, pulls back slightly, running his hand across Sam's cheek and brushing his hair away.

"I'm not doing anything, not now," he whispers, and Sam whines slightly, runs his hands down Dean's back until he's pressing their hips together. "Not, God, not fucking you, Sammy."

"Sam," he corrects automatically, and Dean laughs slightly.

"Sam, then. I won't fuck you, not yet. Next time," and Sam moans again, because Dean's promising they'll do it again, there'll be a next time.

Dean smiles again, drops his head for another kiss, and Sam could get used to this, already addicted to the feel of Dean's lips against his. He brings his hands up and around, running across Dean's stomach and up under his scruffy shirt, bucking his hips up into Dean.

"So needy," Dean murmurs, and Sam gasps his agreement, hands sliding over Dean's sides to rest on his back, holding him close. Dean chuckles slightly, into Sam's mouth, and drops one hand, wrapping it around their cocks and twisting.

Sam lets out a loud cry, his hips jumping wildly up into Dean's hand, Dean's touch. Dean bites down on his lip and does it again, pumping his hand slowly. It's almost too much, Dean's dick pressed hard against Sam's, and Dean's hand building up a sweet, soft friction that has Sam begging for more, nails digging into the muscle of Dean's back.

He comes quickly, would be ashamed of how fast but his mind whites out with the orgasm, teeth digging into Dean's jaw and hands clutching wildly at Dean's body. He arches upwards into Dean's stomach as Dean pumps him through, then lets go and finishes himself off with a few sharp tugs, coming over Sam's thighs with a tight groan.

Sam blinks up at him, mouth wide and gaping, chest heaving with the effort of breathing.

"Thank you," he breathes, and Dean collapses with laughter, rolling to one side and settling against Sam contentedly.

"Thank _you_," he replies, throwing his arm across Sam's chest and pulling him close. "Now go to sleep, you rich bitch."

"Jerk," Sam mutters half-heartedly, before closing his eyes and pressing closer to Dean, feeling more at home than he has done since before he can remember.


End file.
